


moonswept

by DEATHEXECUTION



Category: Lords of Chaos (2018), Mayhem (Band)
Genre: Bloodlust, Gen, Lust, M/M, Maybe. - Freeform, Not Beta Read, One-sided attraction?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tags May Change, look im finally writing a story with more than 1 chapter mom are you proud (she probably isnt), maybe not ;), necrolust, no beta we die like men, possible nsfw, supernatural undertones
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29723718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEATHEXECUTION/pseuds/DEATHEXECUTION
Summary: sequel to Like a Ritual, if you haven't read that fic then make sure to read it before you read this one.
Relationships: Euronymous | Øystein Aarseth/Dead | Per Yngve Ohlin
Kudos: 13





	moonswept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> not proof-read/no beta. We die like men ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry if the chapter is messy or confusing. It's kinda meant to be a little all over the place.

This wasn't really beyond anything he had foreseen.

He has always known how _unstable_ the vocalist is. For fuck's sake, he's almost gotten _stabbed_ by him before.

No wonder Per had proposed cutting as another form of mental and emotional liberation. He claimed that it would be good for the _both_ of them, that Øystein _needs_ to try a new form of coping.

 _Coping with what exactly?_ Neither of them really knew at this point. Øystein knew damn well that Per only used that as an excuse to cut him, and he fucking allowed it.

He allowed it cause he doesn't want to seem like a _coward._

Ever since then, shit has gone downhill. Their evenings had gone silent, instead of Øystein _trying_ to force Per out of his room to do something as simple as watch some shitty snuff film on the couch with him or anything along those lines, it had all turned to Øystein pacing the small, broken-down kitchen and Per spending all day upstairs in his shithole of a room; only coming out if it was necessary. 

It annoys Øystein so damn much. He hates it. _He fucking hates how much he actually cares about the frontman._

He could only wish that he would just _give up on him_ , opt for the easy way out, it being letting the poor frontman self-destruct and _kill himself_ just so that Øystein can hire a new vocalist and start over; **he'd have to worry less if he did that, right?**

_Although... he must admit, Dead is irreplaceable._

Partly for his vocals, _mainly for his stage presence._

Per-- or, _Dead_ to be exact, had brought something entirely _new_ to the band. Something they couldn't let go to waste, something so raw and purely sickening -- Øystein didn't have any plans on giving up on him just _yet_.

_Right?_

Trudging through the astir forest, Øystein sighed wearily to himself; his dull breath developing as a short, speedily evaporating cloud of vapor. He's out on yet another nocturnal walk, one to help free his hazy mind. It's been a longspun day, he considers himself deserving of a break from, well, _everything._

He finally understands. _This must be why Pelle keeps disappearing in the forest so damn often._ It's the stupid, simple light-hearted delight of seeing the trees cast wispy shadows and moonlight onto the fallen leaf-blanketed forest floor.

The smell is rich, robust; the scent of fresh rain fills his nostrils as the guitarist takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. He feels at peace for once in his life.

He approaches the river, a small flowing river not too far from their house; beyond the deep forest, in a small clearance between the trees. That's where he gets his mind off things. Where he lies on the cold, wet ground, no longer caring about anything but the feeling of finally letting himself relax. 

He used to hate this place, always dreaded going here, if he was being honest. Until lately.

After all, Per has tried to take his life in this area; multiple times now.

Every time Øystein questions him, anything along the lines of,

_"why here?"_

The vocalist would just brush it off, say something like, 

_"Because this place is special to me."_

Or, in some cases,

**_"The moon is calling me."_ **

The moon is calling _him?_

The moon is calling _me?_

_Whatever._ Whatever whatever whatever.

Øystein couldn't give two fucks about that sentence at this point. He just assumed that it was the regular edgy shit that Pelle would constantly spit, like a sick gospel or some shit. Sometimes he _really_ couldn't stand the vocalist, other times he'd praise him for his twisted ideas and the way his obviously beyond fucked up brain works.

Whichever it may be, Øystein had always admired the Swede's utter desolation. He's never seen anything like it; felt anything like it.

 **_Touched_** _anything like it._

He recalls it; the two of them sitting on the couch during one of those cold winter nights, re-watching a shitty, clearly fake snuff film. They've seen the movie a couple of times before, but it was the most they could do to keep themselves entertained as of then, so why not.

He remembers everything so clearly; seeing the vocalist jerk his head to the side a few times vigorously, tangled blonde hair tossing over his face. Most of the time it'd happen during a _remarkably_ gory scene throughout the film, sometimes it'd just happen out of nowhere.

He also remembers being _incredibly_ confused and even _concerned_ about it. He's obviously never experienced anything like that himself, so he did his best to... _comfort him_. Although he failed or succeeded.

_He couldn't even fucking tell anymore._

If he thinks hard about it, he can still visualize it;

_his hand on the frontman's shoulder, causing him to freeze and slowly turn his head to stare at him as if fully caught off-guard by human contact_. _It was such a quiet, oddly intimate moment, it made Øystein uncomfortable, understandably so. He could only try to break the silence with a simple;_

_"You good?" he questioned, trying to play it cool. The way the frontman was staring at him was past creeping him out. Those tired, blank eyes..._

_"Yeah," Per would reply simply, blinking twice and then smiling softly; weakly. He seems more relaxed now, those murky, dull eyes of his returning to a warmer state. "Don't worry about me. You're too sappy today."_

_And all Øystein could do was cringe, Not at the reply he got, but at what he had just done. If Pelle was apparently doing okay, then why'd he fucking ask?_

_The guitarist would sigh, remove his hand, frown, and turn his attention back to the movie. And that's how the rest of the night went by._

_Obviously, it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, but there's just something about the vocalist's gaze that fucking stuck with him. Maybe that's why they haven't properly talked to each other in a while._

The guitarist laments, staring up at the sky as he lies on the wet forest ground, the sound of the gentle breeze rustling the drying leaves of every tree surrounding him along with the soothing sound of the tumbling stream alongside him lulling him to a peaceful, almost unconscious state.

The smell of freshly settled rain and damp earth pervades his nostrils once again, and the world dissolves before he can even apprehend it.


End file.
